My head is my home. The floor creaks,
paint flakes like dandruff. Might be
time to sweep the hippocampus
and reupholster the limbic system.
The cerebellum needs new drapes.
Both frontal lobes are full
of uninvited guests, their bedrolls
strewn around the gray matter.

Still, I open the door for more
pot-luck strangers who bring me
left-over pain. The poetry shelves
buckle, and my thoughts outweigh
Manhattan. Amazing that I can even
lift my scull from the pillow,
given the population of me.